


Ends and Odd(itie)s

by LivingProof



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Whumpshots?, Whumptober, Whumpy Oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: Merry Whumptober, to one and all.





	1. A Thousand Fibers

**Author's Note:**

> Well October is half-over, but better late than never, yes? Not sure if anyone is still celebrating Whumptober, not sure if there are prompts floating around somewhere to follow, not sure how many stories this collection will be, but I'm charging ahead anyway. Hope you enjoy.

For a man who spends so much of his time dreaming of the new, the novel, the never-before-seen, Phillip thinks, PT Barnum is unusually attached to every garment he owns.

Or at least it’s an atypical event, for Phillip, to find a man of wealth and means fastidiously sewing a loose button back onto his shirt himself.

It’s certainly not an experience to which the Phillip of a few years ago could relate. Every time one of his shirts ripped a stitch or gained the slightest smudge, it had disappeared from his wardrobe to be replaced by a pristine copy. He had never even spared a thought as to what happened to it then, who went to the trouble to note it and remove it and ensure he never suffered for its absence.

But then he had met them all: Lettie, who knew how to remove any stain from any garment; Anne, miserly with her spare belongings but generous with her time and affection; PT, as industrious with every spare scrap of cloth as any man he had ever known, even before the fire, when he always had the finest silks from the far east on back order, and the richest Ottoman dyes at his disposal. He believed then, for the first time, that there was value in mending what had been torn, in stitching disparate pieces together to make something altogether new and better. 

Then, after, his partner (_partner_, of all the words he never dreamed he would call the man that wild night at the tavern) had finally decided there was no shame in acknowledging where he came from, what he had learned to do almost before he could walk. And Phillip wondered if there was a groom’s son, a maid’s brother, wearing his patched shirts somewhere in the lower east side. 

So Phillip shouldn’t be surprised to see PT Barnum mending his own clothing, but the image still gives him pause, hand hovering over the doorknob. Barnum’s brows are drawn in a tight line as he hunches over the white fabric at his desk, gliding the needle and thin cotton thread through the button’s holes and the placket, over and over.

He wonders, for not the first time, how those hands that steadied him that night in the bar after a shot or four too many, that cast aside burning rubble and plucked up his nearly insensate form the night of the inferno, can be so adept at such a delicate task as this.

He wondered, too, more than once, why the man had bothered to walk into the flames while his family looked on. The only time he’d voiced that thought around the showman, PT snatched Phillip’s wrist and hauled their hands next to each other, scorch-scarred palms a mirror image, looked at Phillip with eyes fierce as any blaze, and part of Phillip’s heart filled and burst open. 

He thanks the heavens that the fire didn’t steal this from PT’s world, the last remnant of Philo Barnum’s legacy, didn’t extinguish that spark of grace in his fingers, that flicker of pride PT got on his face when he took in a well-patched rent, a finely-darned hole. (Really he’s grateful his decisions that night didn’t take PT away from the world, but he tries not to think like that, most days.)

Phillip knows the look that would be on PT’s face, too, if the older man caught sight of him gathering heavy wool in the doorway of their office. He breaks the silence before PT has a chance to notice his audience.

“I don’t suppose you could work on the hole in my overcoat’s pocket while you’re at it?” Phillip winces as the words leave his mouth. He ought to know better than to remind PT of the difference in their status, despite everything the older man has achieved, knows it still rankles his partner to be lumped into the same class as the roustabouts who mind the docks, however hard they work.

He winces too at his own inability, after all this time, to inject the bare minimum of sincerity into their conversations, to acknowledge how much he admires the breadth of his partner’s practical knowledge.

But more than anything he winces at PT’s yelp as the needle’s barb sinks into the worn flesh of his index finger.

“Christ, Phillip,” PT snaps as he thrusts the finger into his mouth. “Sh’ld ‘ake you ‘ear a ‘ell.”

Phillip blinks. “What?”

PT removes the digit. “Should make you wear a bell. Where do you get off, sneaking up on a man like that?”

Phillip grimaces, thinking of the garish adornments his partner ordered for the caravan of camels they’ve just had shipped over from Aden. “Why don’t we save those for the menagerie?”

Barnum glances up from his wounded finger to Phillip. “And from where, pray tell, did you get the impression that _you_ weren’t part of the menagerie?”

That gives Phillip pause. “I’ve never thought of it that way. But I do hope you hold me in higher esteem than our collection of dromedaries.” 

Barnum shrugs, holding his bleeding finger aloft. “Above them, perhaps. But most certainly below Jumbo, of course.”

Phillip rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

“Well, glad that’s settled.” Barnum sets aside his work, pats the pockets of his vest, his trousers. It takes Phillip a moment to realize the older man is searching for a handkerchief. Phillip reaches into the pocket of his overcoat, steps forward with an offering.

Barnum reaches toward him before curling his hand away. Phillip’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

Barnum waves gingerly at the cloth. “You don’t want me to use that.” Phillip looks down at his hand, at the pristine white silk between his fingers, rubs a thumb over the bold embroidered initials on one corner. He used to have piles of them, when he lived under his father’s roof, but their numbers have dwindled slowly since he joined the circus: one lost to the bottom of the horse stalls, one covered in ink when he’d done his best to mop up a spill. It strikes him then that this may very well be the last one.

He holds it out again. “Take it, PT.”

Barnum frowns. “Phillip. I don’t want to…” _Get it dirty. Ruin it. Take one more remnant of your old life away from you. _

Phillip hears the message in undertones. _It’s not worth it._

And that’s what drives him forward, until he’s standing in front of Barnum’s chair, pulling PT’s hand up and blotting the blossom of red on the showman’s callused finger with the delicate fabric.

“Take it, PT,” he says as he meets his partner’s eyes. “I’ve found I…don’t much care for it, anymore.” 

Barnum’s free hand comes up to hold the cloth fast. “Alright. But don’t be expecting any replacements. At the rate Constantine tears his costumes we’re going to work those poor silk worms to death.”

Phillip smiles. “Of course.” He’ll bet every dime left in his accounts that within two weeks there will be a stack of new handkerchiefs sitting on his desk one morning, in red and gold linen, rather than ivory silk.

“And now,” Barnum gestures at him, one hand still wrapped around the other, “what’s this about your coat pocket?”

“Oh,” Phillip replies. “A torn seam.” He arches an eyebrow at Barnum’s hands. “Were you…going to stitch it?”

Barnum snorts. “Of course not. I’ll be lucky if we don’t have to get a sawbones in here to amputate.” He wiggles his maimed finger. “But in the meantime, I’ll show you how to mend it. Grab some matching thread, and let’s get started.”


	2. Patron Hallow

Phillip awakens to the sight of PT Barnum’s beaming face, mere inches from his own. From this distance, he can distinguish every fleck of emerald in those gilded eyes, count every crow’s foot, make out every patch of stubble the showman missed shaving this morning.

Or he could, if only his watery eyes were able to focus on an image this close.

“What,” he croaks, “is it now?”

Barnum leans back a breath, grin unabated by Phillip’s surly tone. “Just finished sketching the latest show bill. Thought you might want to have a look.” He thrusts the poster a hands-width away from Phillip’s nose. Phillip picks out a splash of lavender, a sparkle of gold, before his head thrums from the riot of colors.

Phillip closes his eyes, blinks a few times to clear his vision. “_You _sketched this?” he rasps, throat raw. “Or you had Timothy and Conrad, who we _pay_ to do things like this, draw it and then you colored in a shape or two and now think you can take credit for their work?”

Barnum clucks his tongue. “I’m deeply wounded that you could even think for the briefest of moments I might seek approbation for someone else’s work, Phillip!”

Phillip shuts his eyes and coughs into the sofa cushion under his cheek. “So, the latter, then?” He can already hear the scowl in PT’s voice.

“Fine. Conrad did a marvelous job.” Barnum’s feet slap against the wooden floor as he stomps to his desk. “And you’re cranky when you’re sick.”

Phillip sniffs wetly. “ ‘m not sick.”

“Right,” Barnum responds from some distance away. “Because you’ve always been a low baritone, your nose usually matches my coat, and you’re in the habit of skulking off to the office in the middle of the day to take a nap.”

“Can if I want,” Phillip rasps out, and regrets it the moment the words escape his lips. His voice must sound as rough as it feels, though, because Barnum relents.

“Yes, you can,” PT chides, “but I’d rather you did it in the comfort of your own bed.” And Phillip has tried, these past few days, but his empty apartment always feels colder than their tiny office, no matter how much he stokes the fire in his stove, or how many blankets he piles on his bed.

“Just resting for a moment. I’ll get back to work shortly,” he claims, not bothering to open his eyes.

He doesn’t even have the energy to be annoyed by Barnum’s long-suffering sigh. “I thought I told you to stay home if you weren’t feeling any better today.”

“And I thought I told you to stop sending the dancing girls to Mr. Bennett’s office to give him a present for every holiday, but here we are.” Phillip counters.

“He loves it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Phillip cracks one eye open to see PT shuffling through the papers on his desk. “The strongly-worded missive Rosie returned with last St. Crispin’s day would suggest otherwise.” He’s never bothered to analyze the particulars of how and why his partner had decided _that_ was a holiday worth celebrating.

Barnum dismisses the comment with a jaunty wave. “Nonsense. A literary aficionado, that Bennett. I’m sure he appreciated my commemoration of that baronial date.”

Phillip peels his other eyelid back. “Somehow I find it hard to imagine Mr. Bennett regards himself as a member of a band of anything, let alone brothers.”

Barnum grants him a sly smile. “All the more reason to remind him, then.”

Phillip shakes his head once, temple dragging against the velveteen beneath him, and his eyes droop closed. The darkness does little to alleviate the throbbing behind his forehead. “Forget Crispin. PT Barnum, patron saint of exiles and strays.”

Barnum doesn’t say anything for a moment, and were Phillip any less sunk into lassitude he would jolt at the sound of PT’s voice right next to the sofa.

“Exiles, strays, and a certain sick socialite who should know better than to come into the office when he’s barely able to stay awake.” 

Phillip’s eyes unfurl. “I’m awake enough to have this conversation. Unless this is some fevered dream. That might explain a thing or two.”

Barnum tilts his head. “I really should send you home.”

Phillip’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. “I don’t work for _you_ anymore, remember?”

“You’re right.” Barnum nods. “I should have Lettie send you home.”

Phillip scowls half-heartedly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Barnum laughs. “When have the words ‘wouldn’t dare’ ever applied to me, Phillip?”

“Yes, yes,” Phillip concedes. Barnum gives him a piercing look. “Let me see that poster again,” he says to forestall the comment he can see on PT’s lips.

“Oh!” Sufficiently distracted, PT retreats to his desk, returns with the show bill in question. “A new depiction of the Wheelers. Quite eye-catching, wouldn’t you say?”

It certainly is, Phillip thinks as the purple swirl resolves into Anne flipping through the air, the dash of gold into WD, arms outstretched, ready to catch his sister’s strong hands.

Although…he squints to clear the image. “Well, yes, but…”

“But what?”

“It’s only, well WD is certainly fit, but he looks a bit more like the strong man here. And Anne, they’ve taken some liberties with her figure, she’s certainly shapely but she doesn’t…they’ve made her out to be rather voluptuous but…I…” He dares a glance up from the poster in front of him to PT’s deliriously pleased face.

“I…I didn’t mean…it’s not that I spend a great deal of time looking, but…I...” He can only hope his fever-flush is enough to disguise the heat that’s spreading across his cheeks.

From Barnum’s expression, however, the showman is missing nothing. He turns the poster back, takes a long look before smirking at Phillip. “I’ll admit, they may have added some…embellishments. Not to worry, though, I’ll be sure to tell WD you think they made him far too strapping, and I’ll relay to Anne that you think she has small –”

“You’re an infernal wretch,” Phillip whines. Barnum beams at him again, and Phillip can’t help but reflect a smile back. “You’d harass an ill man? Have a heart, PT.”

Barnum’s eyebrows quirk. “I thought you weren’t sick.”

Phillip moans. “Oh, but I am. Deathly ill, can’t you tell?”

“You will be, if WD ever learns what you think of Anne’s assets.” Phillip buries his enflamed face into the cushion. Barnum’s voice drops a shade. “Truly, though, you should be resting at home, Phillip.”

Phillip sinks farther into the sofa, turns his head to regard the gossamer threads of frost curling up the outside corners of the far window. “I’ll go home. In a bit. I only…” He thinks of the biting cold outside, the long trek back along grey and frozen streets, the chilly echoes of his hollow apartment.

“You’ll rest here for a while,” PT tells him, “and then I’ll take you home.”

Phillip debates protesting, countering that he is not an exile or a stray or merely a sick socialite, but he’s too fatigued for those lies right now, and speaking makes his head pound and his throat burn and his chest ache, so he lets his eyes drift shut.

“Saint Barnum, indeed,” PT grumbles, but Phillip feels a thick blanket being drawn up around his shoulders, a heavy hand resting briefly on his arm, all the same. 

Phillip drifts off, warm and cozy and content, to the sound of PT humming the melody of a bawdry song about a buxom barmaid. 

_Saint Barnum. Indeed. _


	3. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for some mood whiplash. And a foray into second-person POV.

When her eyes have closed, when your daughters have said their goodbyes and been taken away by their grandparents, when the Sister from St. Francis gently touches your shoulder and pulls the sheet up over your wife's face, you finally leave that room behind, allow yourself to slide down the wall to the floor just past the threshold.

You don't know how long you stay there, if there is sun or rain or dark outside the nearby windows. You don't think you much care either way, anymore.

You look at your outstretched legs, your fingers clasped loosely together. Fingers that have hardly known an idle day in their time on this earth. Those hands helped your father carry his kit from an appointment with one swell to another. Those hands tugged fabric in line so he could finish his stitching, maybe earn enough from the work to buy you both a warm meal that night, if you were lucky.

(You were rarely lucky, in those days.)

Those hands, ever steady, fumbled with the pins and tape the first time you saw _her_, sun-kissed golden hair and soft smile and warm eyes, burning embers that thawed you from the tips of your frozen toes to the ends of your uncombed, greasy hair.

Those hands placed a ring, cheap tin buffed until it shone like gold, on her finger that day with reverence, held the promise of a world full of light and love and magic.

Those hands cradled first Caroline, and then Helen, as soon as the midwife allowed you into the room, tilted the girls so she could see their sleeping faces, give you a smile full of wonder, hold out her hand to take yours and clasp it tightly, saying _look what we did, what we did together, what glory and joy we've brought into the world._

Those hands held hers one last time, only a few minutes ago, pale and too cold and trembling, stroked her knuckles and the delicate bones in her wrist, kept her grounded until nothing on this earth could hold her anymore, not her rattling lungs, not your prayers, not Caroline's wet eyes or Helen's gasping sobs, not even the strength you still had left in those hands.

You turn those hands over, look at the lifelines on the palms, _that one there means our paths will be intertwined forever,_ she'd told you one balmy summer evening after the two of you had slipped away from your other responsibilities to watch your shadows grow tall across the short waves of your favorite beach.

You'd laugh at that now, bitterly, if you had the strength to do anything other than pull one breath into your lungs after another.

You're so busy, looking at those hands, tracing the lines and exploring the callouses, as if you'd never seen them before, that you don't notice he's here until he's sitting on the floor beside you.

“PT,” he says, and stops. You don't respond. You're not sure if you have a voice anymore, if anything in you is capable of a language man can conceive right now. 

“PT,” he says again, and a hand comes up to your shoulder. It's warm, too warm, a brand burning through your shirt, peeling back your skin and melting through your bones to reach something far beneath.

“The girls are with Ch– with their grandparents,” you reply, though no question was asked.

“PT,” he says a third time, third time a charm, and wasn't there a time you thought you lived a charmed life, had fought through cold and hunger and exile and everything else to grab all you could have wanted?

“The sisters will take care of the arrangements, make sure everything is set. I think we'll have the service on Tuesday, so all the performers can come without missing a show –”

“PT,” he says, sterner this time, and that pressure on your shoulder grows, until you wonder if it will press you down, ground you through the floor into the dirt below, where you might be able to lay with her one last time.

Were your hands not strong enough, to clutch tightly everything you had fought and scrabbled for, tooth and nail, to keep the universe from snatching the things you loved away from you?

“She told me what she wanted it to be like, when we knew she was – she said she wanted it to be simple, not a society affair, just wanted her friends and family to be there and –”

“PT,” again, but infinitely softer this time, as soft as her hands were the first time you met her, before you took her away from a luxurious life, forced her into a series of odd jobs that left those hands stronger but worn down by harsh soap and hard labor, by needing to do what she could to provide for your family in those years you were never able to do enough.

“I thought...I thought we'd have more time together – ” He doesn't interrupt you this time, doesn't need to, because the burning in your eyes and the cold in your chest do that for him. That hand slips down, off your shoulder and across your back, tugs you over.

“PT,” he says one more time as his other hand comes up cradle your face, pulls your forehead down to the crook between his neck and his shoulder, and you think he smells different today, somehow, more myrrh and sage than his usual coffee and ink, and did he get a new cologne, or has the narrowing of your universe just brought the things closest into greater focus? “I'm so sorry.”

You haven't cried through all of this. You've been strong, for her, and the girls, and maybe even the Halletts too, because you can't imagine having to bury Caroline or Helen. You haven't really cried in forever, can't remember letting yourself weep since your mother was no longer around to rock you in her arms and stroke your hair. You sniffled a few times at her funeral, tears running down your cheeks, before your father dropped his hand to your shoulder, patted it once, then told you it was time to go.

But now a hand is smoothing down your hair, and another is splayed between your shoulder blades, and you think it might be the only thing keeping you here, grounded, when so much of you just wants to sink into the dirt or float up to the heavens.

Finally, with the love of your life lying still in the room behind you, with your daughters in the care of their grandparents, with the circus, that dream you built from nothing the first time, and ashes the second, in the capable hands of the people who call it home, with you in the warm embrace of Phillip's arms, you let yourself fall apart.

“Alright, PT,” he says as you collapse into him. “I've got you.” 


	4. Partners in Crime

“What,” PT Barnum asks as he pushes through the tavern door and takes in the chaos before him, “the hell is going on here?”

“Ah,” his favorite bartender comments, smoothing one side of his handlebar mustache down and shifting the towel perennially draped over one shoulder, “so the boy found you then, did he?”

“Yes. He told me to come quickly.” True enough, although the child, dressed in ragged hat and trousers split at the knees, had only passed that message after Barnum graced his palm with coins three times.

“Certainly looks like you had an interesting night,” Barnum mutters, hands on hips. Bar stools and slightly sober patrons are scattered about a tall man lying face down on the barroom floor, his head haloed by broken glass and what smells like a distillery.

It’s not the first time Barnum’s strolled through those swinging doors to encounter this particular brand of bedlam. Knowing the company he keeps, he doubts it will be the last.

Barnum spares the publican a conspiratorial grin. “But for once it appears you can’t blame my lot for the mess in your establishment. So I’m not entirely clear on what, exactly, needs my attention here, Daniel.” That doesn’t mean he isn’t happy to lend the other man a hand with whatever issues may arise, not when the doughty Irishman had helped him make such a convincing pitch to his now-partner, had let the troupe drink and eat on credit when the prospect of the circus books ever coming out of the red was nothing but dim. 

Daniel grimaces and waves to a booth in the back corner. “Figured you might be the one wanted to tend to Mr. Carlyle.”

Barnum peeks over the other man’s head. “What? What’s he doing here?” His search for a familiar face amongst the other patrons comes up empty. “By himself?” _Drinking alone? Without me?_

Daniel looks at him, bright eyes clouded over, and Barnum’s smile sinks like a stone. He swallows hard and pushes past the shorter man, barely sparing a glance at the moaning stranger on the floor as he makes his way to the back of the room. Barnum sees the image of his partner from behind at first, slumped over a table, head in his hands.

Barnum slides into the seat beside the younger man, notes the mussed hair and askew waistcoat. He tilts his head to get a better angle, lets out a breath at the lack of blood or bruises on the younger man’s face. “Phillip? Are you alright?”

Phillip doesn’t flinch, but slowly lowers one hand to glance sideways at Barnum. “PT? What…what’re you doin’ here?”

Barnum shoots a look at Daniel, hovering nearby, then turns back to his partner. “I’m not quite sure, Phillip. Seems as though I missed one hell of an evening over here.” He sighs at Phillip’s glassy stare and dazed expression. “And what, exactly, were _you_ doing here tonight?”

“Just meetin’…” Phillip clears his throat wetly, “meetin’ with Mr. Donovan.”

“Donovan?” Barnum wonders. “Our potential investor, that Donovan?” He had never met the man, himself, had tried to take the measure of the businessman from his correspondence alone. He gathered Phillip was familiar with the fellow from his former social circles. And though Phillip was still far too polite to say it outright, Barnum was fairly certain were it not for Donovan’s considerable connections and impressive accounts, Phillip would have fed the potbellied stove in their office the man’s written entreaties to explore a partnership.

“Well, then where has he…” He looks back at the man sprawled on the floor, notices for the first time the blood stain next to his groaning figure. “_That’s _Donovan? Phillip, what the hell happened here?” 

“Met ‘em for a drink,” Phillip answers. “Bus’ness disc’ssion.”

“Business discussions don’t typically end with one party passed out on the floor, Phillip,” Barnum says. _Or with the other well past plastered. _Phillip gives him a bleary look. “With a few exceptions,” Barnum amends.

Phillip drops a hand to the table, stares at his splayed fingers. Barnum turns back to Daniel. “What _happened _to Donovan? Is he alright?”

Daniel shrugs. “Got hit in the head.”

Barnum’s eyes dart around the mostly empty bar. “By what? By who? Is he still here?” And he can’t quite figure why the normally industrious bartender is so blasé about the health of a wealthy customer.

Daniel nods at Phillip. “Yes, I’d say he is, Mr. Barnum.”

Barnum blinks, reeling. “He is…Phillip?” He turns to regard his partner again. “You hit him?”

“Yeah,” Phillip responds woozily.

“But…with what?”

Phillip’s fingers curl reflexively. “Th’ bottle.”

Barnum leans back, scrubs a hand over his face, looks between his addled partner and the aloof bartender. “Would one of you start from the beginning, please?”

“Bus’ness disc’ssion,” Phillip repeats.

Barnum lets out a sigh. “Daniel?”

Daniel clucks his tongue. “I missed it myself. But I gather Mr. Donovan…wanted a more private meeting with Mr. Carlyle here.”

Barnum’s neck cracks as he whips his head around to look at Phillip. He takes in the younger man’s vacant expression, the slump in his shoulders, considers his slurred words. “Phillip,” he starts, voice wavering, “did he…”

Phillip blinks a few times. “Mi’ey.”

Barnum leans in. “What?”

“Mi-ckey,” Phillip declares slowly.

“Mickey?” Barnum asks, mind whirling. “Mickey.” His fists clench against his thighs. “He slipped you a mickey.”

“ ‘nly ‘ad one,” Phillip mumbles. Barnum looks to Daniel for translation.

“He only had one drink, Mr. Barnum. Donovan musta’ dropped something in when I wasn’t looking.” The man worries at the towel over his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“N’t ‘r ‘ault,” Phillip mumbles. It’s Daniel’s turn to look to Barnum for clarification.

“Not your fault,” Barnum says. He sits back, runs a hand through his ragged hair. “He tried to drag you off, and you pelted him in the head with the nearest thing you could find.”

Phillip nods mutely.

“Good,” Barnum snarls, sparing a glance at the businessman on the floor. “But you should have hit him harder.”

Phillip snorts and Daniel murmurs his assent. “He hit the bastard any harder,” Daniel drawls, “the man wouldn’t be waking up tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow…” Barnum mumbles, tapping his lips with a finger. His quicksilver mind bounces through the potential consequences, considers the connections Donovan has in Tammany Hall, the bitter rumors already swirling around his partner, what he’ll do to the wretched cretin on the floor if he dares to show his face anywhere near the circus –

“It’s a pity,” Daniel interrupts his whirlwind thoughts. Barnum looks up, brows furrowed. “That Mr. Donovan took off on his own, that far into his cups.”

Barnum stares at the bartender dumbly. Daniel goes on. “ ‘course I advised against it, but a man must make his own way in this world. Why, he must have stumbled all the way to the wharfs, on his own.”

Comprehension dawns and Barnum grins, all teeth. “Quite the pity, indeed. The wharfs are a rough area of town, you know, especially after dark.”

Daniel nods. “Why, a man not possessed of all his faculties down there could run into all sorts of trouble.”

Barnum starts at the press of Phillip’s shoulder into his bicep. “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?”

He turns, lays an appeasing hand on Phillip’s forearm. “Nothing for you to worry about, Phillip.” He drags a thumb over a whiskey-soaked patch of the younger man’s cuff. “At least not right now.” He looks over his shoulder at the bartender, raises an eyebrow.

“ ‘ll have the boys take care of it, Mr. Barnum. Donovan wakes up tomorrow with none of his money and half his clothes, he’ll be a lucky man. And if he goes to the law and says anything different, why,” he waves to the regular patrons, two of whom are already bending down to grab the insensate man’s limbs, “everyone present here this evening will be sure to let the officers know how much they all saw him drink before he stumbled on out of here.”

“I owe you, Daniel,” Barnum replies in low tones.

Daniel shakes his head once, firmly. “Amount of business you and yours drag into this establishment, Mr. Barnum? I’d say we’re square.” He nods at Phillip. “You take care of him, and me and my boys,” he waves behind him to Donovan, “will take out the trash.”

“Thank you,” Barnum breathes as the bartender leaves to fulfill his end of the bargain. One matter settled, he turns again to his partner.

“PT,” Phillip intones solemnly, “ ‘don’ think Mr. Donovan s’all that interested in investin’ in our show.” 

A short bark of laughter surprises Barnum. “No, Phillip, I don’t believe he is. And if it’s all the same to you, I think we’ll be a bit more circumspect in selecting potential business partners in the future.”

“Par’ner,” Phillip gabbles. “Y’r my par’ner.”

A soft grin steals its way across Barnum’s face. “Yes, Phillip. I am.”

“Y’ra good par’ner,” Phillip mutters as his forehead tips down to meet Barnum’s shoulder. “Bes’ I ever ‘ad. But I thin’ I wanna go home now.”

Barnum shifts to wrap an arm around Phillip, looks over his shoulder to see Daniel has been true to his word, and is now sweeping up the remaining shards of glass on the Donovan-less barroom floor. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Phillip.” He exits the booth, pulls Phillip’s wavering form up beside him. “Come along, then,” he says as he settles Phillip’s arm across his shoulders, braces his other arm against the younger man’s back. “Let’s go home.”


	5. The General, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I missed a beat or two here. And what's that, you say? Not only is October, and Whumptober, over, it's now nearly December? Nonsense. Whumptober is a state of mind, not a place or time. 
> 
> And I won't even manage to get this entire one-shot posted at once (meaning, yes, it's not really a one-shot, is it?) but I will have the second part up soon. 
> 
> So I'll stop rambling, and just get on with the show.

“For God's sake, PT, just let me see!”

That's enough to make Charles stop on his way to the big top outside the slightly ajar door to Carlyle and Barnum's office.

He debates continuing on his way, grabbing Vasile and heading over to the mess tent for some lunch. He knows if he gets there too late the tall man will have picked over the best offerings the cooks have whipped up; they might have those roasted turnips with butter they both love so much.

But, if he sticks around here, maybe he'll have a good enough story to trade for some trotters or pork cracklings if he's lucky, so he creeps up to the door.

Last time he'd gone in there after hearing the two of them talking in the late evening, hoping to walk in on a salacious encounter he could regale Lettie and Constantine and maybe Fedor with, he'd found nothing of the sort. Instead, Barnum’s forehead was planted on his desk amongst a forest of important looking documents with small print, and Carlyle had been scribbling figures so forcefully into the circus ledger he'd torn the page he was writing on, and several more besides.

They'd both startled up like hunted deer when he stalked into the room, and he had wisely reversed in his tracks before anyone could say a word.

So no, it probably isn't worth peeking around the open door to see –

“It's nothing, Phillip, really, just a scratch.”

“You're getting blood all over –”

Then again, fortune favors the bold, and if nothing else that exasperated tone coming out of Carlyle means he'll be so distracted he may finally agree to buy Charles that larger caravan – blue and red and gold, fit for a general – that he's been nagging the younger ringmaster about since April.

His previous attempt to secure an upgrade had been less than successful, when he'd barged into the office in all his finery after a weekend afternoon show and rightly pointed out that a large circus star deserved a large caravan. Barnum had raised an eyebrow, countering that for all his fame and ego Charles – like Napoleon himself – was not possessed of a large figure and hardly needed a large space to get by.

Then Barnum had seen Carlyle's face – a maudlin, scrunched up mess that would put a kicked puppy to shame – and quickly amended his statement, chittering on about limited funds and revenue flows and the rising price of barley until Charles's eyes had glazed over and he'd left the office while Barnum was still muttering something about fungible commodities.

But it was Barnum himself who told Charles that most of his success was down to simple-minded tenaciousness, and Charles has enough courage and conviction to fill a man many times his size. He puffs out his chest and slams the door back to charge into the office.

“Charles!” Barnum beams from the chair at his desk. Carlyle is hovering over him, Barnum's arm clasped in both of his hands, fretting over something Charles can't see from his angle. Barnum gestures widely in greeting – or tries to, anyway – and Carlyle swears.

“Damn it, PT, hold still and let me get a look at this! It seems deep.” He clutches again at Barnum's arm, and Charles can at least see that the showman's sleeve is pushed back above his elbow.

“What can we do for you this fine day, Charles?” Barnum asks, eager for any distraction.

“_You_ can rarely do anything for anyone, Barnum. I wanted to talk to Carlyle about something, though.”

Carlyle doesn't even look up at Charles as he reaches for a nearby rag and dabs at Barnum's arm. “My apologies, Charles, I need to tend to this first. PT, there's a lot of blood here....”

“Nonsense!” Barnum interjects. “You talk to Charles, Phillip. I will remedy this minor malady.” The showman starts to rise and pull his arm from Carlyle's grip.

The younger man, not missing a beat, grabs Barnum's elbow and wrist in either hand and _tugs_, sending the larger man sprawling back into his chair. Charles gleefully meets Barnum's wide-eyed look. _Guess all that time he spends hanging from the low bars is starting to pay off._

“Charles,” Carlyle murmurs as he resumes his inspection, “could I possibly trouble you to fetch the nearest medical kit from the big top?” He finally looks up at Charles, utterly indifferent to Barnum's outrage.

“I do that, and we can talk about that new caravan?” Charles smirks at the young man's raised eyebrows. Carlyle looks back to Barnum, and Charles knows he’s calculating the odds of Barnum making for the nearest exit – even if it is the tiny window in their office – if he tries to get the kit himself.

“We can talk about it,” Carlyle mutters, resigned. “No promises.”

Barnum sputters indignantly, looks between the two of them. “Now, there's really no reason for all this concern. I am quite fine,” he asserts.

“Do you have...is that a piece of _wood_ in there?” Carlyle's tone is enough to prod Charles to take a step toward the office door.

“Charles...” Barnum warns.

Charles looks over his shoulder at Barnum, Carlyle, back at Barnum. He smirks. “One medical kit, coming right up. You need anything else, Carlyle?” He revels in Barnum's expression of complete betrayal.

“Do you remember who convinced you to join the circus, Charles? Who pays your salary? It's not too late for me to fire you,” Barnum growls.

“Yes, it is,” Carlyle comments, rotating Barnum's arm as he surveys the wound.

“Well it's not too late for me to fire _you_,” Barnum snips at the younger man. Carlyle ignores him.

“Oh, and Charles, if you happen to see Lettie please send her over here,” Carlyle adds. Barnum raises an eyebrow as the younger man meets his gaze evenly. “Just in case this needs to be sewn shut.”

Charles laughs at the astonished expression on Barnum's face. “What, that cut, or Barnum's mouth?”

Carlyle hums, considering, as Barnum again futilely attempts to free his arm. “Tell her to bring enough thread for both.” Barnum just sighs and slumps in his chair, wisely refraining from any further remarks.

* * *

Charles is halfway between the circus office and the big top before it occurs to him he has no idea where the medical kits are stored. He halts, mid-step, in front of the dressing rooms behind the main tent, doesn’t notice WD strolling out until the man nearly bowls him over.

“Charles! I didn't see you down –” WD clears his throat. “Charles. How are you?”

Charles grunts. “Fine. How ya doing...” Charles surveys WD in his new outfit, purple and gold and chock full of _sequins_, “...sparkles?” WD shoots him a dour look.

“The old costumes were tearing too frequently. Barnum says this material should hold up better.” WD frowns at Charles's raised eyebrow. “Carlyle let Anne pick the colors.”

“Course he did.” And speaking of Carlyle... “Hey. Need a medical kit from the big top. You have any idea where they are?”

“Not sure about the big top, but I know there's one in the mess tent,” WD answers, puzzled.

“Eating there a dangerous venture, now?”

“It's gotten much better since Barnum found that new cook from New Orleans. But Carlyle had a kit put in there after that incident with Fedor and Constantine and Deng's knives.”

Charles shakes his head. “Can't believe I missed that.”

“You didn't miss anything, trust me. What did you need a kit for, anyway?”

“Oh, Barnum did something stupid again.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I dunno. Looked like a fair amount of blood.”

“Blood? Charles!”

“Ah, it ain't that bad. Carlyle had his 'Barnum left me to do all the paperwork' not his 'someone's fallen into the lion pens at feeding time again' face, so I'm not too worried.”

“Still,” WD says as he leads Charles into the mess tent, “we should probably get this to them.”

“We?” Charles asks. “No, I'm getting all the credit for this good deed.”

WD rolls his eyes. “Should I even ask?”

Charles smiles. “Hoping for an upgrade to my caravan. Got my eye on a shiny new number.”

WD tilts his head as he and Charles enter the mess tent. “Is there something wrong with the one you have?”

“Well, no, I guess it's fine...”

“I love mine. Four walls, roof over my head. A lot more than I've had for too much of my life. And it's all mine. Don't have to share with Anne, or a bunch of fellows I don't even know.” WD beams down at Charles.

Charles works his mouth for a moment. “Sure, it's great, but...”

“But?”

“Nevermind. Where's that medical kit? Best get it to Carlyle before Barnum tries to dig his way out of the office with his bare hands.”

WD leads Charles over to the shelves along the side of the mess tent where the medical kit is sitting. Charles looks at the third shelf sourly until WD pulls the kit down and hands it off. “Maybe we should have this put lower...” WD starts, apologetically.

“I need it, I'll pull up a damn chair, WD,” Charles grumbles.

“You...right. I know you will,” WD mollifies. He and Charles stand for a moment in silence before WD narrows his eyes. “Didn't you say something about blood...?”

“Oh, right.” Charles nods at the other man. “Thanks for this. See you around, glitter bug.” He grins.

“I'm only wearing this because Barnum says it catches the light bet...forget it,” WD sighs as Charles saunters off.

Kit secured, Charles starts making for the office building situated just behind the big top. He's still yards away when a too-familiar voice calls out, “Trying to welsh on our plans to rehearse that new act again, short stack?”

Charles grunts, affronted. “I'll have you know I'm on very important circus business at the moment, Letts.”

Lettie cackles. “Only important circus business we can trust you with is mucking out the stalls, Charles.” She takes a few steps towards him and Charles clutches the medical kit closer to his chest. “What have you got there?”

“Medical kit,” Charles sniffs imperiously. “Carlyle needs it.”

Lettie's smile drops. “Is he alright?” Before Charles can answer she leans back, hands on her hips. “Wait. If Carlyle was hurt Barnum’d be hell bent for leather looking for that. What gives, Charles?”

Charles gives her half a smile. “_He's_ fine. Barnum's done something stupid. Again.”

Lettie crosses her arms, and only the faintest trace of surprise flickers in her eyes. “What is it this time?”

Charles finds the other half of his smile. “_It_ is the thing that's going to get me a new caravan, finally.”

Lettie frowns, considering. “Is there something wrong with the one you have?”

“Wrong? No, but why does everyone keep asking – ”

“Mine's just swell, you know. Hell of a lot better than the hovel my family had when I was a girl.” Charles sighs as Lettie continues. “And a damn sight nicer than that little corner in the back of the laundry where I spread a bedroll out so I didn't have to leave the building.”

“Yeah, sure, but – ”

“And I got Constantine to paint it up real nice, why it's about the coziest little thing you can think of.”

Charles opens his mouth, but can't get a word out.

“Anyways, what's that got to do with you carrying a medical kit all around?”

“I...ah...I should get this to Carlyle.” At Lettie's look he amends, “Probably ain't so bad. There wasn't too much blood.”

“He's _bleeding_?” Lettie asks. “What did he do?”

Charles shrugs again. “Cut up his arm? I decided a long time ago I'd best not ask too many questions around that man.”

Lettie shakes her head, pauses and groans. “Oh, Lordy, I told him yesterday that some of the benches around the outdoor animal pen looked like they were rotting. I suppose he thought he should test them out.”

“How?” Charles snorts. “By jumping up and down on them himself?” He and Lettie share a look. “By jumping up and down on them himself,” Charles mutters.

“Of course he did,” Lettie sighs. “You know the man doesn't have the sense God gave a gray goose. Still, you'd best get that to Carlyle before the poor boy has kittens.” With that, Lettie shoos Charles off in the direction of the circus office.


	6. The General, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of this apparent two-shot, finally. I don't think I'll ever get this quite the way I want it, but sometimes you just have to push a story out of the nest...or something.

“One medical kit,” Charles calls out as he shoves open the office door with one foot. “Just what the general ord – ” he pauses, taking in the desks and chairs, devoid of either ringmaster. “Well now what the hell are they up to?”

He shuffles cautiously into the office, sees the chairs pushed back, the blood stained rag on the floor next to Barnum's absurdly ornate desk. He walks over to the rag and spies a small patch of red just below his feet.

Charles follows the sparse stains out the small building before they're lost in the packed dirt of the circus lot a few feet from the door. He spins around, hoping to pick up the trail despite his limited viewpoint. “You morons. Where did you go?” 

  
And while Charles’s ears may be lower to the ground than most, they’re perfectly adequate to hear the commotion starting up in the big top. He adjusts his grip on the medical kit as he trots toward the noise.

He pushes aside the closest tent flap and spies the back of both ringmasters, talking over each other as Deng waves one of her sabers angrily at Constantine, who's gesturing back with a short blade in his hand.

“Well, at least the tigers haven't gotten loose again,” he grumbles under his breath.

“_These_,” Deng flips the tip of her sword up, inches in front of Constantine's nose, “are finely crafted, expensive_,_ precise _tools_, and not for the likes of you to make...to make..._alterations_ to your costume!” She shouts. 

“Deng, I'm sure Constantine didn't mean to -” Carlyle starts.

“Blade's a blade,” Constantine interrupts as he points at her with the knife.

“Constantine, surely you see that Deng only – ” Carlyle again.

“How many times must you be told these are not _toys? _Ignorant _boy!” _Deng slices the air between them.

“Now, there's no need to – ” The young man keeps trying.

“How many times must you be told that we _share_ at the circus, little _girl_?” Constantine rears his head back. 

“Both of you, now – ” Carlyle interjects just as Barnum steps forward and slams a hand down on the nearest pallet. Silence falls over the tent, but it’s not from the showman’s intervention, or Carlyle’s exhortations, or even the rumble of divine thunder. It’s instead from the look on Barnum’s face, stricken, as he clutches at the bloody gash on his arm and starts to topple forward.

Carlyle leaps over to brace Barnum along one side, gets pulled down by the larger man's weight. He hits his knees on the sawdust with a crack that makes Charles wince. Deng drops her sword with a clatter and dashes to help support Barnum's other side.

“Shit, PT!” Carlyle and Deng ease the older man to the ground, push him down on his back.

“PT? PT!” Carlyle shouts frantically as he taps the other man's cheek. “Damn it, PT!”

Charles doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until it leaves him in a huff when Barnum finally stirs.

“What? Phillip, wha...stop that,” Barnum mumbles as he flaps at Carlyle’s hand on his face. 

“PT! Are you alright?” Carlyle ignores Barnum's flailing, leaves his fingers where they are.

“Fine.” Barnum takes a deep breath. “I'm fine. Just...”

“_Baichi!_” Deng snaps.

“If that was 'you're a colossal fool, Barnum,' I'd hafta agree with the lady,” Charles finally offers. Deng and Constantine turn to regard him, but Carlyle doesn't look away.

Barnum doesn't acknowledge Charles either, instead tries to lever himself upright. As if they've rehearsed it, (for all Charles knows, they have), Carlyle and Deng press the showman's shoulders back to the ground. When Barnum makes no further move to rise, Carlyle looks up at Deng.

“Deng, would you please send a telegram – ”

“To the doctor, I'll go myself to fetch him.” Deng takes a hard look at Barnum, pushes a wavy strand of the man's hair back from his forehead, then springs to her feet. Charles quirks an eyebrow as she blithely steps over her precious saber on the dusty ground.

Constantine calls out as she makes for the tent flap, “I apologize, Deng, I should not have been careless with your blades.”

“I overreacted,” she replies. “It is of no importance.” She looks over a shoulder to share a smile with Constantine before she departs.

Charles turns away from that conversation to find Carlyle and Barnum deep in a separate argument.

“PT,” Carlyle hisses, “you need to stay _still_ until the doctor gets here!”

“I can stay _still_ just fine in the office.”

“You are not moving – ”

Barnum reaches up with his good hand to grab the back of Carlyle’s neck and pull him in closer. “_Everyone_ walks through here, Phillip. I don't want them to _see_...” his breath hitches.

“So what if they do, PT? What does it matter –”

“I can’t be…” Barnum’s fingers flex. “I have to be…” Carlyle leans a little closer, tilts his head. Charles sees the older man’s lip move, but he can’t make out the words.

Carlyle searches Barnum's face for a moment, and must see something there. He turns to Constantine, standing a few feet away.

“Constantine, would you help me get him to the office?”

“Is this wise?” The tattooed man asks as he crouches down next to the two ringmasters.

“No,” Carlyle replies, “but we're going to do it anyway.” Charles watches the two of them pull Barnum's arms over their shoulders as they gingerly raise the taller man to his feet. He trails behind the slow-moving trio, delicately lifting Deng’s sword on the way. He dusts it off with a shirtsleeve, sets the blade in its stand, and pushes through the tent flap.

* * *

“I'm fine, really I am,” Barnum protests as Constantine and Carlyle lower him to the divan in the corner of the office.

“Of course you are…” Carlyle mutters, and Constantine grumbles, “So says the man who could drown in a spoon of water...”

Constantine brushes his hands on his trousers after depositing Barnum on the cushions. “Do you require anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Barnum says, perturbed when he realizes no one is listening to him.

“No, thank you, Constantine,” Carlyle replies, and at that the tattooed man nods before walking away.

Charles shuffles out of the doorway to make way for the other man. Constantine turns at the threshold to spare a look behind him.

“Never gonna get that new caravan now,” Charles grumbles.

“Caravan? Is there something wrong with – ”

“No, damn it,” Charles says, “there's nothing wrong with the one I have.” He glances up to meet a thoughtful expression. “Forget I said anything. Go tell Letts and the others that everyone's fine. They know something's up. I'm sure they're worried.”

Constantine tilts his head to regard Charles for a moment more before nodding and departing. Charles sighs and turns back to the ringmasters.

Carlyle has settled on the floor next to Barnum, is hunching over the other man's wounded arm. Charles at last steps forward to deliver his precious parcel. Carlyle looks up at his approach. “Oh, of course, thank you Charles.”

“You didn't make it easy, you know,” Charles chastises. Carlyle’s brows furrow.

“Charles, I'm sorry,” Carlyle sighs as he spreads the kit open on the floor beside him and picks up a clean cloth.

“And about that new caravan...”

“I know, I said we would talk about it but...” Carlyle scrubs his free hand through his hair, grimacing.

Charles looks at Carlyle’s drawn face and Barnum's blood on the young man's hands, thinks of WD's long-overdue new costume and Constantine trimming the torn edges of his cape back with Deng's daggers and the pile of things yet to be mended in Lettie's caravan and the doctor's fee Carlyle will be paying before the night is over.

“Forget it.” Charles says. Carlyle’s eyebrows rise, and Charles glances at Barnum, who is looking back intently, silent for once. “Don't think I need it. Spend the money on something better.” Charles takes a step back. “Like a ringmaster who has the sense to not hop around on a bunch of broken boards, for example.” And though he will never admit it, Charles is beyond pleased at the rare smile that steals across Carlyle’s face.

He will, however, freely acknowledge his joy at Barnum's aggrieved look while the man mumbles, “I really don't think it's too late to fire him, is it?”

Charles chuckles and shakes his head as he turns to leave. He pauses at the door, peeks back just before he closes it.

Carlyle is hovering over Barnum's bleeding arm, carefully blotting at the injury so intently he doesn’t see the older man peering down at him. But where Charles would expect a pained grimace, an persecuted sigh, a snide comment at Carlyle’s concern, he instead sees the soft look in the showman's eyes, the small smile as he watches Carlyle tend to his wound.

Charles gives himself another moment to watch the scene, _it doesn’t tug at something in his gut, no, it's just that he needs to make sure the two ringmasters don't tear each other apart, because that would be bad for the circus and then he would definitely never get a new caravan, _before he quietly shuts the door.

* * *

It's about a week later when Charles tromps out of the big top, exhausted from a full day's worth of rehearsals. He swears Carlyle worked them all harder today, maybe hoping if he kept the pace frenetic enough Barnum – that idiotic, injured flop doodle – wouldn't have the chance to jump in and demonstrate a new dance move. It hadn't been two full days before the elder ringmaster had shown his face back in the big top, and though the stitched wound looks much better now he knows Carlyle has had his hands full keeping both the circus running and Barnum from doing something stupid. Again. 

He rounds the last of the outbuildings between the tent and his caravan, and stops dead in his tracks. He blinks a few times at the sight in front of him before he approaches slowly, takes a full turn around the caravan.

It's his, all right, steps and door handle specially lowered for him, but what were once plain, gray driftwood boards are now a riot of colors and elaborate images. There's a constellation of bright gold stars on the door, brilliant stripes down one side, writing in a script he half recognizes from some of Deng's books on the transom, even...yes...that's a life-sized horse painted on the other side, prancing with head reared back.

He takes a step toward the image, has just raised a hand to trace a white fetlock when a merry voice calls out.

“Well don't touch it, Charles, the paint is still wet!”

He whirls in his boots and looks up at Lettie. “What...how...wet?”

“Yes, Charles, paint is generally wet before it dries.”

“Yeah, I know that but...Letts...what...” He gapes at her, waving his hand at the ornate caravan.

Lettie looks over his head, admires the beautiful equine. “It's something, huh?”

“Yeah...who...did Barnum...?”

Lettie smiles softly at him. “Was Carlyle's idea, actually.”

“But how did...just this morning...”

“Oh, we all took turns painting something today. WD and Anne worked on the stars, Constantine did the horse, of course, and everyone else just grabbed whatever color took their fancy.”

“But...when? We've been in rehearsals all day!” Charles stutters, flabbergasted.

“Oh, we went in shifts. Carlyle had a whole schedule drawn up, made sure everyone had a chance to duck out and pick up a paint brush.” Lettie's smile gets wider. “What do you think?”

“I...Letts...it's...” Charles pauses to clear his throat a few times. “Hell, gives Buckingham Palace a run for its money, doesn't it?”

“Oh, that Queenie would be lucky to have something like this. Now come on, let's grab some dinner while the paint's drying. Told them to save you some hoe cakes but you know if we wait too long Fedor's gonna steal your share.” 

Lettie swats a hand at Charles’s hair, chuckling, and they make for a warm tent redolent with aromatic spices and loud laughter and bright, paint-dappled faces.


End file.
